Chapter 11
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Translator: MadScientist
Chapter: 11
Chapter Title: Escort Duty (1)
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The next day, Aiden returned to Pomwell House. Honestly, Allen felt relieved. Of course, he'd considered the chance that the man might not show, but finding someone of that caliber around here wasn't easy.
The long-term employment contract went off without a hitch. Two years, seventeen gold coins a month.
It wasn't an exorbitant sum, but for the early going, it was hardly a bargain either. On top of that, Allen's personal funds—scraped together from every corner—barely scraped two hundred gold coins.
...If I dip into the trading company's capital, it'll stir up a mess. I've got to handle this myself.
Even short-term hires required itemized reports down to the single gold coin. Getting tangled up with the Baron over big money? The headaches ahead were obvious. Sure, even between parent and child, clear accounts were best, but Pomwell Baron took it to an absurd extreme.
Anyway.
Allen seized the momentum to dive headfirst into the mercenary business. Not that he planned to throw long-term contracts around like confetti. He didn't have rotting piles of cash to waste on talentless hacks without experience. And truth be told, none had caught his eye anyway.
So, he'd start slow with short-term gigs, building up. Anyone who proved useful could always switch to long-term later.
...And wouldn't you know it, trouble cropped up before the ink even dried on the business.
Pomwell Trading Company had a standing job: every half-year, haul copper ingots from the mine—mined and smelted—to the mid-sized city of Rbalra by the deadline. They needed escorts for the transport team.
Normally, without their own mercenaries, they'd hand it off to the Count's Charlotte Mercenary Corps. But now, with Allen Mercenary Corps in play, that wasn't necessary anymore. Hell, they could undercut and steal jobs other trading companies tossed Charlotte's way.
...Nah. Too soon for that. No greed right out the gate.
His rival was the city lord's own granddaughter. No point manufacturing enemies before he'd even grown properly. Better to play the friendly partner for now, expand steadily, then scale up. He'd seen it plenty in Guild Master—trash-talk the big dogs too early, and the game difficulty spiked to hell!
"Aiden, transport escort mission. We'll hire on the down-low, so scout the guild for solid guys. No dead weight."
"Got it. I'll check around."
With a veteran like Aiden in the mix, no need for public postings anymore. Letting him prescreen saved time and sanity.
Allen didn't sit on his hands either. He haggled with the Baron. Family mercenary corps or not, the operating costs came straight out of his pocket.
Laughably, the cheapskate Baron even tried chiseling his youngest son's fee.
"One hundred eighty gold. Plenty for your level."
The old rate to Charlotte Mercenary Corps was two hundred eighty. A hundred-gold slash? Allen couldn't let that slide. Escort duty for one-eighty was bare-bones survival money. No future in it.
"Two-forty minimum. Anything less, and I'm in the red."
"Can't justify that for an unproven outfit."
"Then I can't take it. Won't bleed cash before I've even started."
"You think you can match Charlotte Mercenary Corps?"
"That's why I'm compromising at two-forty. Hiring alone eats at least one-thirty, plus food, lodging...Easy two hundred. Still a win for you."
"...Fine. Two hundred."
This son of a...
Allen swallowed the boiling curse. Never dreamed the old man would lowball his own kid like this!
But the Baron held the cards. Allen's desperation was plain; no room for bluffing. Put crudely, he was flat broke.
"Two-twenty, please. ...I'm bootstrapping here. All that grief for peanuts—what then?"
"Two-ten. Final."
"...Deal. Two-ten."
The Baron shaved off another ten regardless. Allen vowed silently: the day he held the reins, not a single coin off for dear old dad. He grabbed the contract and promissory note, then retreated. ...No wonder subcontractors bitched endlessly.
A raw deal, but sealed. Time to plan.
First off, grasp the mission's nature.
Trading company escort—
The southlands saw less regional or city strife, so escort gigs ranked easier than most spots. Easier relative to elsewhere—not a cakewalk by any stretch.
Get lucky, finish without drawing steel. But as an operator, write off luck entirely. Bandits wouldn't ditch a fat score easily, even if bloodied...The south had fewer packs, sure, but every transport drew steady reports of one or two raids. Plan for it.
Allen mulled the optimal setup, then Charlotte Mercenary Corps popped to mind.
...Right—they'd snag escort work too. Why not team up?
Same route anyway. Mutual backup. Handle surprises smooth as silk.
Issue: would that pride-swollen brat bite?
Fuck it... Swing and see. No? They roll solo.
Cost nothing to ask. Nobles rubbing elbows wasn't some grave sin.
Decision made, Allen bolted straight for the Count's castle.
Ugh—
Charlotte let out a muted scream, shooting upright. She panted raggedly, groping around as if to confirm her surroundings.
Her palms met not the demon realm's rough, leathery grit, but the meltingly soft, smooth weave of fine cotton.
Thank god... Not the demon realm. This isn't... ...
Since the demon realm trip, nightmares plagued her often.
Heads munched to pulp, limbs sheared off, torsos pulped. Screams, sobs, roars all tangled in cacophony.
- "Hurry the fuck up, you bitch?! Go grab those bastards!!"
- "Bitch, bitch, bitch, bitch—"
Allen's shout—the one from the supposed coward—echoed relentlessly in her ears.
...He was a damned bastard, sure. But no coward.
She touched her left cheek. The slap-swollen puffiness had fully subsided. ...Yet the mental scar clung fast, etched deep.
"...Damn it."
She muttered the curse low, slid from bed, and headed to the bath. A maid bustled by with a hot water pail—freshly drawn.
"Miss, did you scream?"
"Fill it. Quick."
"Yes, miss."
Charlotte stripped and sank into the steaming tub. She surrendered to the maid's ministrations, lost in thought.
Fortune smiled: as hoped, the Count pledged investment in her mercenary venture. Her retainers' lavish praise had sealed it.
Goal met, yet no pride swelled. ...Likely that blunder she pulled.
But past was past. No clinging. Regret changed nothing. And it wasn't some fatal screw-up. Just a minor slip—!
"Enough. I'm getting out."
"Yes, miss."
She stood bare; the maid swiftly toweled her dry, styled her hair, and dressed her.
Morning bath done, she headed straight to the dining hall. Morning duties piled high—speed was key.
She wolfed down a half-hearted breakfast, then met early applicants: entry interviews for the mercenaries. Demon realm losses had left gaps.
Sessions flew by; morning vanished. Disappointing yields for the effort.
Post-lunch tea, a visitor arrived. The name jolted her—she nearly sloshed tea from her cup.
"...Who? Allen? You said Allen?"
"Yes, miss. Young Master Allen."
Her mind reeled. Why the hell was this bastard here now?
"Tell him I'm busy?"
"...No. Bring him."
"Yes, miss."
Maid gone, Charlotte gulped tea to soothe her chest.
Awkward encounter, but dodging? ...No. Why bother?
Me? What'd I do wrong? ...Strictly speaking, he was the guilty one!
Daring to slap a noble lady and spew filth.
- "Bitch, bitch, bitch, bitch—!"
The echo rang again.
Bitch—no, Charlotte—
Frantically willed the voice from her head.